


Body Shots Prohibited

by Micheoff



Series: The Roommate Agreement [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: (but neither of them find that out because i'm the devil incarnate), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Body Shots, Feelings Realization, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Feelings, Roommates, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Micheoff/pseuds/Micheoff
Summary: When Michael admits to Miles, his roommate and soon-to-be frat brother, that he's never had a body shot done off of him before Miles seeks to immediately remedy this outrageous—his words, not Michael's—fact. The situation soon escalates, as things always seem to do when Michael and Miles are involved, and before Michael can even get his head around what's happening Miles has left his world spinning off-kilter.NEW RULE: No body shots are allowed in the dorm.





	Body Shots Prohibited

**Author's Note:**

> So Frat AU is a Lunael AU I've had in my head for ages now. I've written a few interweaving-but-not-really drabbles for it on [my Tumblr account](http://teammuchrespect.tumblr.com/tagged/frat%20au), but up until now I hadn't posted any of them on here. I might end up uploading the other drabbles on here (after editing them, because they're not up to par with what I would normally set my standard for something before posting it AO3) in a series, but it would take me a while to do so, so... we'll see.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! I'm really into UST when it comes to Lunael. I know it's probably annoying at this point but, hey, look, I have a permit: it says I can do whatever I want. 
> 
> Also, if you'd like, you could play [this song along with the fic for the ultimate Frat AU Aesthetic™](http://teammuchrespect.tumblr.com/post/160516591242/ginuwine-pony-playing-from-another-room).

So Michael’s never had a body shot done on him before. Like, sure he’s done a few sticky body shots off some people at a few of the parties that the fraternity’s thrown, but he’s never found himself on the receiving end before. Not because he’s actively been against it, but no one has really offered to do it before. 

Which is a fact that Miles is honestly appalled by, pressing his hand to his chest with a level of dramatics that only Miles can manage to make look funny while also being absolutely ridiculous and cringey.

They’re sitting on the floor of their dorm room with Michael’s bed at their backs, bored out of their minds and passing an almost empty bottle of very watered-down tequila (which is how it was when Miles had shoved it in Michael’s face excitedly after smuggling it over from the frat house to their dorm room just minutes before they decided to get smashed) — also, yes, they’re drinking tequila straight from the bottle, because fuck solo cups and fuck manners, they’re college students so who cares, Michael doesn’t even _like_ tequila but you don’t fucking look a gift horse in the mouth in college — back and forth between them intermittently between sips. 

After all, to Michael and Miles boredom can only be cured by getting fucked up.

Michael’s knee is pressed to Miles’s thigh from where Michael’s slumped back against the bed, his posture poor while slightly angled towards Miles, his ironic decorative weed shirt pulled up around his midriff because it’s fucking hot and the dorm’s air conditioning is absolute trash. Not even the fan Miles plugged in is cooling him off, even when he intentionally moves and sways his upper body back and forth with it as it oscillates and blows warm air around the room. So he’s got his hand thrown over his eyes like he’s dying, the dramatics you know, and he can feel the way sweat is making the skin at the back of his knees feel all slick and gross.

Miles isn’t that well off either, though he looks less like he’s on the verge of death — probably because he grew up in Texas and is used to the heat here but Michael came all the way from New Jersey to go to UT, so that’s the excuse Michael’s sticking with for being a baby about the heat — and more like he’s just mildly irritated by how hot their room is; the kind of bored annoyance a tiger gets on its face and in the swing of its tail when a huge horsefly keeps landing on its ear and won’t just fuck off.

But Miles isn’t showing off his skin like Michael, just pressing the bottle of (probably tepid, at this point, thanks to the heat) tequila to his neck after he’ll take a sip. Occasionally he’ll even pinch the hem of his sleeveless t-shirt between his index finger and thumb, peel the shirt off of himself, and start flapping it about in the air for a few seconds — which only really works to send hot air under his shirt, but the breeze must feel good because he keeps doing it whenever he starts to shift around restlessly.

It’s so hot even Miles’s signature snapback hat with the UT Longhorn emblem above the brim is just sitting sadly in his lap, Miles telling Michael conversationally that if he put it on it’d be like that time they hot boxed in the upstairs bathroom at the frat house — the air heavy and suppressing both of their lungs as they sat in the tub and on the sink’s counter passing a bong back and forth between them and a few of the other frat members — only for his forehead. He also said something about how he wanted to invest in one of those cheap handheld fans that use the small triple-A batteries to power them.

But somehow they’ve landed on the topic of body shots. Michael would like to think that they managed to get here somewhere around the time Miles mentioned almost jumping off the frat houses’ balcony and into the pool below it while drunk and not because he was talking about belly button lint. Except, okay, they totally are only talking about it because Michael was talking about belly button lint.

Not his, though! He’s clean, okay, just… you know… he may have been talking about their asshole dorm’s resident assistant that Michael may or may not have accidentally seen naked a few days ago because he forgot to knock. And Miles asked if their RA had belly button lint because _that’s_ the part of the story Miles’s brain had decided to focus on, quickly followed by Miles telling a story about how he once did a body shot off of a guy who had belly button lint. It was a gross story, but Miles was laughing about it like it didn’t scar him too bad.

But that’s beside the point.

Because the point is that Miles is being overly theatrical about the whole thing, pressing his hand to his chest, guffawing practically while staring at Michael in bewilderment and disbelief. Michael raises the arm he has shielding his eyes slightly to watch Miles gesture about.

“Dude, you’re telling me that with that—” Miles gestures towards Michael’s exposed stomach while holding the neck of the tequila bottle in hand “—stomach you’ve never been asked to have someone do a body shot off you? I mean, with those hip bones, man? Really?”

Michael’s already hot everywhere, but he can still feel the way his cheeks heat at that, always so quick to flush bright red when Miles starts telling him how cool he is, how he’s the greatest at Mario Kart, how he can beat out anyone at beer pong, how he deserved to win ‘hottest tits’ at the wet t-shirt contest the fraternity threw last weekend even if it was only as a joke. 

He turns his face into the side of his arm, breaking eye contact with Miles.

He forces himself to react with a snort, sarcastically saying, “Could you sound any more gay right now, Miles?”

“Hey,” Miles laughs, holding his hands up in the air after passing the tequila back off to Michael, “if saying I’d gladly pounce at the opportunity to lick those abs makes me sound gay, then I’m okay with that. I’m confident enough in my sexuality to say that.”

“A little too confident, huh?” Michael prompts. His mouth is going dry talking about this.

He lets the tequila slip down his throat easily as he takes a bigger sip than usual, wiping the side of his hand over his wet mouth before handing the bottle back off to Miles afterwards.

“Hey, man, I’m a Taurus—”

Michael groans automatically, rolling his eyes because Miles always does this; ever since he had a short week-long ( _literally_ , it was one week but Miles acts like it lasted for years) fling with a girl who’d been really invested in all that astrology bullshit he’s been all about it, acting like he’s some astrology master or some shit. Michael can barely say more than two words before Miles has to talk about how much of a Leo Michael is, whatever the hell that means. It’s annoying and Michael hates how much Miles loves reminding him about his ex-girlfriend. Michael is… he’s just annoyed.

“—we can be cocky, especially with my moon placement.”

“No, Miles, it’s because _you_ are a dumbass who acts like that on your own. Not some fucking fake star or celestial whatever bullshit telling you that you are.”

“Astrology isn’t—”

“Oh my God,” Michael interrupts Miles, dropping his arm from his eyes and leaning over to forcefully snatch the tequila from Miles’s hands and take a huge gulp for show. “If we’re going to have this argument again I need to get drunk faster.”

Miles frowns, pouting.

“Heyyy,” Miles drags out like he’s offended, pausing for a beat, and then he’s complaining, “don’t drink the rest of that, I’m saving it.”

“Yeah? For what? The next time we want to get drunk on the floor?”

“I mean… you didn’t have to call it out like that. Maybe there’d be a special occasion or something. Sometimes we have friends over, you know.”

Michael and Miles look at each other steadily, Michael’s brows raised as he stares back at Miles, a pregnant pause between them.

Miles cracks first, a broad smile breaking out on his face as he grabs the tequila from Michael’s hand and takes a small sip of it while trying not to laugh, tittering around the lip of the bottle. Their fingers brush as he grabs the tequila and Michael pulls his hand back from the sweating bottle like he’s been burned, but Miles doesn’t react to it, either not noticing or not caring.

He pretends like he reacted so vehemently because it’s too hot for any skin-on-skin contact.

Michael pretends a lot in college.

“So let’s bring it back to this body shots thing…” Miles looks at him thoughtfully, obviously bouncing an idea back and forth in his head. “Have you just never been propositioned before by anyone or what? Hit me with them deets, man.”

Michael just shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

“It’s just never came up. I normally end up being the one doing the shots by default anyway, not giving them.”

Miles shakes his head vaguely, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he just can’t believe it. Michael wants to ask why Miles even cares, but bites his tongue.

“You’ve never even thought about doing one, then?” Miles asks. “Like, not even when we go to the raves downtown and everyone else is?”

“You really expect me to let some strange fuck that’s probably wearing neon leg warmers and doing drugs in the back at a rave put their tongue on my stomach?”

“Well… what if they’re hot?”

“No.”

“What if we’re at the frat, then? And it’s just the rest of UT’s students here? Would you do it then?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, because he might. “Maybe. It’s different if it’s, like…” He pauses to search for the right words. “I think I’d be okay with people I know, y’know? Or see around, I guess. I might, then. Depending on the situation and how drunk I already am.”

“Huh,” Miles hums out, sounding perplexed. He looks at Michael, eyes skirting down to Michael’s exposed stomach and then back up to his face, shakes his head to himself, and says, “Wow,” while bringing the tequila back up to his lips.

Michael has no idea what that’s supposed to mean or what Miles’s mild tone is supposed to hint at. But he doesn’t have to wait to figure it out, because Miles doesn’t even have the bottle tipped back far enough to sip before he’s dropping it away from his mouth and licking his lips.

“How’s this not happened before?” Miles stresses the words out carefully. “You love doing all the stupid party stuff! You’ve done jello shots!”

“I think you missed the part where I said I’ve already done body shots before.”

“No, I know, just… never on yourself? Not even once?”

Michael thinks he might get a headache soon. “Yeah, Miles. Like I said a hundred fuckin’ times already.”

“Okay, hold on,” Miles wheedles with his hand out to stop Michael from exaggerating any further, “you’ve said it maybe two times.”

Michael stares up at the ceiling, pinching at the bridge of his nose now.

“Right. Which is why I don’t know why you’re still asking me how it’s never happened. It just never has, okay? I’m just more of a ‘drink four beers in a row and then do a keg stand’ kind of guy, not really the ‘body shots and buffalo club’ kind.”

“But I’ve had it done on me before,” Miles tells him, brow furrowed.

“Well, of course you have, Miles.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miles asks, vaguely affronted without even knowing whether or not he should be.

Michael rolls his eyes and grabs the tequila, taking a sip just so he has something to do with his jittery hands.

“You’ll do anything for a laugh,” he clarifies, placing the bottom of the bottle on his stomach and shivering slightly, bottom of the glass still cold even when the tequila isn’t much anymore. It feels incredible on his overheated skin.

“Sure, but you’d do anything for attention,” Miles counters.

Michael shrugs, because Miles isn’t exactly wrong.

Last Friday Michael had literally done a keg stand (beating out the frat’s newest member) and followed it by playing (and maybe intentionally losing) depth charge. Needless to say, Miles ended up having to drag him back to their dorm and put him to bed after Michael dropped his pants and started doing jägerbomb after jägerbomb while everyone cheered along with that kind of morbid curiosity you only get when you’re watching an incredibly horrible yet fascinating animal attack on the National Geographic channel.

The resulting hangover after kept him in bed the whole day, only eased when Miles had wordlessly offered Michael more migraine medicine, a bottle of water, and an entire bag of hot dog buns. Michael was up at seven a.m. cleaning the dorm the very next morning, aided on by Miles’s constant care supply of bread and water throughout the day.

“So would you do it if someone asked you to?” Miles asks. “Like, here. Not at some rave where everyone is doing hard drugs and possibly in their thirties going through midlife crisises… crisee? Crises? Wait, what's the plural of crisis? Whatever, ignore that. So would you?”

Miles pulls the tequila out of Michael’s hands and off of his stomach, the bottle leaving a ring of condensation on Michael’s skin that turns warm in the stale air after seconds.

“I guess. I’ll try anything once.”

“Especially on a dare,” Miles says knowingly, nodding.

He shrugs. That doesn’t even need a response, really. It’s well-known that Michael would do practically anything he was dared on or bet he wouldn’t. He’d even let a stranger at a rave do a body shot off of him. Well… the cleanest stranger at a rave. And then he’d have to invest in fifty different types of antibacterial soaps afterwards.

“Yeah, sure.”

“So if I dared you to do one right now, you’d do it?”

Michael laughs under his breath before answering, rubbing his palm through the liquid on his stomach and then wiping his newly wet hand on his forehead for relief, the heat only seeming to build on itself and make things seem more dire.

“We’re not even at a party, Miles.”

“Don’t have to be at a party get drunk. Besides, you know we bring the party, baby!”

“So does your bullshit astrology sign mumbo-jumbo or whatever also mean you have to have an ego that doesn’t match your lame ass personality at all or is that just you?”

“Come on,” Miles starts to sweet-talk genially, head tilted and his smile sly. “You know it’s true.”

“If we brought the party then we’d already be in the fraternity and not sitting in the shitty dorms drinking stolen, watered-down alcohol on a Friday night.”

“Fine, okay, whatever,” Miles rushes dismissively, clearly impatient with the detour the conversation has taken and unusually rushing Michael for a proper response. “But would you? Like, right now?”

Michael blinks. He’s suddenly incredibly aware of the place where his knee is pressed to Miles’s thigh.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, eyes flickering up from that one point of contact between them towards Miles’s face. “Why’re you asking?”

“Just hypotheticals, man,” Miles says with a one-handed wave, bottle of tequila still held in his right hand and resting on his thigh idly.

“Why,” Michael hazards slowly, warily eyeing Miles up, “do I feel like you’re about to say you want to be my first or something stupid like that…”

Miles just grins his megawatt smile, all teeth and newly springing up laugh lines at his eyes. 

Once Miles is focused on one thing it’s almost impossible to get him unfocused from it. Which doesn’t sound like it should be hard to do, because Miles, in general, is very unfocused unless he took a higher dose of Adderall that morning, but it’s different when his brain trips over one thing and then keeps tripping over it. 

Sometimes Miles ends up more focused on cup-and-ball than he does on studying for midterms. That or he reads the same passage over and over again in his text book until he has to have Michael help him by reading it out for him because it’s harder for him to process text rather than hearing something out loud.

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” Michael starts to say, but Miles interrupts him.

“Be right back.”

And then Miles is ambling up, setting the bottle of tequila on Michael’s desk, pausing momentarily to pick the hat up off his lap and put it on Michael’s head sideways, and without another word he leaves their dorm room, shutting the door behind him.

All the air in Michael’s lungs rushes out of him the second Miles is out of sight.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, taking Miles’s hat off his head and tossing it in the direction of Miles’s bed with enough force that it thumps into the wall before sliding down onto the bed, but not even the loud thump against the wall satisfies and quenches the nerves suddenly twisting up in his stomach. 

Michael stands up slowly, wiping his sweaty palms on his shirt as it flops back down from where it was pushed up to his ribs, wrinkles along the bottom of it from just how long he and Miles had been sitting on the floor at the edge of his bed. He stares around the room aimlessly for a beat before falling backwards onto his bed, throwing an arm back over his eyes and breathing a little too quickly.

This is bad.

Michael’s heart is beating so fast he thinks he might possibly be on the verge of going into cardiac arrest. He can’t even begin to imagine how shocked the med students would be to see him being rolled through the campus hospital on a stretcher — especially the ones who’re in the frat Miles and Michael are pledging to and who last saw him perched on Miles’s shoulders while he was acting as the referee in a very intense game of beer pong in the fraternity’s pool.

He must look absolutely wrecked with the way his cheeks are hot and lurid from the blush that fans out along his skin and the way there’s a sheen of sweat at his temples and damp at the hollow of his throat. 

Michael’s good at denying things and pretending like everything’s hunky-dory, but he can’t just ignore this. 

If Miles puts his tongue anywhere on Michael’s body he will more than likely burst into flame. Spontaneously combust, even.

Because… because it’s gross. Right. Yeah, that’s exactly why Michael is very adamantly against the idea of this happening. Having someone lick booze off your stomach and then salt off your skin is disgusting and too invasive and Michael is simply just a hygienic person with more matured tastes in alcohol-based games. Like beer pong. Which is totally a classic.

That’s all there is to it and Michael won’t allow himself the opportunity to think of another more logical and glaringly obvious reason as to why he has to wipe his sweaty palms over his shirt for a second time, because that’s definitely all there is to it — what it absolutely has to be, because nothing else makes sense to him right now and if something changes now he’ll be helpless to it. It’s the unhygienic factor to it that’s making his pulse race and his face flush in obvious distaste.

Michael doesn’t remember when he switched his major from Electrical Engineering to Denial 101.

And then the door opens up again and startles Michael from his thoughts — Miles not even giving Michael more than a minute or two’s chance to calm himself down before he’s back. Miles kicks the door closed behind him and he makes no pause in his movements when he sees Michael now laying on the bed, heading straight for the mini fridge by Miles’s desk.

Michael can’t even find it in himself to say anything, just drops his arm from his eyes and raises up on his elbows to watch Miles move about. Miles has come back into the room holding a clear Ziploc bag with cut up lime wedges inside, the juice jostling around at the bottom of the bag.

“Where’d you get the limes?” he asks Miles, thankful that his voice doesn’t betray him by cracking.

“Are you sure you want to be made an accomplice in the crimes I’ve committed today?” Miles asks, throwing a harmless smirk over his shoulder as he raids the mini fridge for something, an eyebrow raised.

“Please don’t tell me you fuckin’ stole from one of the people we share a floor with, dude. We still have the rest of this semester before we move into the frat house, don’t fuck us over now.”

Miles turns back to the mini fridge. The smile on his face is evident in his voice as he says nonchalantly, “Remind me at the next grocery run we do for the frat that I owe Kerry.”

Michael sighs regretfully, sorry for even asking. He stares up at the ceiling like he can’t believe he’s even friends with Miles.

“Man, did you really just bust into Kerry and Jeremy’s dorm to steal their limes for body shots? Really?”

“Depends. Am I under oath right now?”

“No.”

“Good, ‘cause I was gonna lie anyway. Speaking of lie…ing. Laying. Laying down. Uh, are you really sure you want to do this on your bed because, dude, body shots can get messy,” Miles advises sagely, now standing with the salt shaker and the bag of limes with one hand. 

Now would be the perfect time to tell Miles that he doesn’t want to do this. Except, well… he’s suddenly really interested in the concept of it. Especially when Miles is standing beside the bed and looking down at him, his own face flushed from the heat and the freckles on the bridge of his nose standing out against it.

Miles licks his lips, raising his brows again patiently as he waits for Michael to take his head out of his ass and actually give him a proper response other than staring at him like he’s grown a third head.

“Um,” Michael starts, nervously threading his hand through his curls, ruffling them as he glances up at Miles, “do you want to do me on the floor instead, then?”

Miles chokes on nothing, sputtering for a moment, and turns to cough off to the side, eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ, Michael, phrasing.”

Michael’s confused for only a moment before he inhales sharply and slaps a hand over his face, rolling his eyes.

“Not like that, Miles!” he groans.

“Well, obviously I know that.”

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“Fuck, dude, okay. Let me just fucking get on the floor. Jesus, man,” Michael says around a laugh, feeling a little delirious from the heat.

Michael pointedly doesn’t look at Miles as he rolls off of the bed and then finds himself sitting on the floor by the foot of their beds. He’s never been more thankful for the fact that Miles is just as much of a stress-cleaner as he is (though he is definitely lazier about it), because the floor is thankfully clean enough that he doesn’t need to worry about crumbs poking at his back like most college kids would have to in his position.

“You wanna take your top off, bro?” Miles is asking now from where he’s still standing above him, his voice a bit strained.

Michael wastes no time in grabbing the back of his shirt and practically ripping it off of his body (to hell with the fucking thing anyway, it was fucking hot and he has no idea why he was wearing it in the first place). He balls it up in his hands and puts it behind him on the floor and then lays back, using his shirt as a makeshift pillow of sorts.

His chest is expanding a bit too quickly in anticipation, sweat making his body glisten slightly at the dip of his chest and the backs of his knees. He licks at his bottom lip quickly as he watches Miles grab the tequila from Michael’s desk and then kneel down beside him.

“How do you want it?”

And isn’t that a loaded fucking question that Michael has no fucking clue how to answer.

“Whatever,” he says unhelpfully with an equally vague hand gesture.

“Whatever? Really? That’s the attitude you’re going with?” Miles asks, an eyebrow raised in question. “The energy you’re giving off is so lackluster right now, dude. This is your first official body shot that’s gonna be performed on you and your answer is ‘whatever’ like this isn’t exciting?”

“Yeah, Miles,” Michael stresses sarcastically, no enthusiasm in his tone whatsoever. “Whatever. I don’t care. You’re the one who wanted this to happen so bad, you should be better prepared with ideas and shit.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m prepared. Are you?”

Michael snorts at the cheesy delivery of the words but doesn’t even get the chance to ask what the hell that even means before Miles is straddling his thighs, a hand splayed next to Michael’s shoulder to keep him up, and then Miles is leaning down and his mouth opens just in time for him to lave the flat of his tongue along one of Michael’s dusky pink nipples.

Michael yelps in surprise and practically jumps out of his skin, voice cracking as he hisses out, “Dude, what the fuck?”

His breath bottoms out and his back raises involuntarily off the ground just an inch, Miles not pulling off right away and instead closing his hot and _very_ fucking distractingly wet mouth around Michael’s nipple like a vice. A very, very soft and mind numbing vice. The wet heat from Miles’s tongue is a confusing feeling in contrast to the stale heat of the air around them. 

Michael’s about to push at Miles’s shoulders and tell him that it’s too hot but then he can feel the light scrape of Miles’s teeth over his nipple and his mouth snaps shut so suddenly his jaw throbs, teeth clenching down around the confusing noise that almost manages to spill out of him at the mind-frying sensation. And then Miles pulls off with a wet pop, already shrugging blithely, mouth upticked and spit-slick, having been very thorough with his tongue. Uncomfortably thorough. Michael’s dick has never been more confused in his life. 

He blinks up at Miles and can’t even make any words out, holding his breath. Christ, he can’t even make out what he’s feeling. 

“Salt needs something to stick to,” Miles explains himself simply at Michael’s wordless look.

Michael’s mouth is still clenched shut around another noise he doesn’t quite understand that tried to peel out of his mouth when Miles had pulled away almost too soon. He exhales noisily through his nose, a testy huff.

“You didn’t think to warn me, maybe?” Michael snaps, furious with himself for the way his heartbeat had skipped at the raw scratch of Miles’s beard on his skin and hasn’t exactly righted itself since, offbeat and rattling.

“I felt challenged,” Miles admits.

“If you fucking say—”

“I’m a Taurus—”

“Miles, I’m serious, do not fucking—”

“We love challenges.”

“Get the fuck off of me, you fucking sick fuck,” Michael says in disgust, but doesn’t actually move to enforce his words at all because Miles getting off of him right now is probably the last thing Michael wants.

And Michael finds that he… he wants a lot of things right now. None of which he’ll permit himself to actually ask for or even think, for that matter. He’s nipping all of them in the bud for his own sake.

Miles smiles at him, because Miles is always smiling.

Michael thinks he hates him.

Except he’s starting to realize that the tug he feels on his heart and in his groin as Miles says, voice a little raspier now, “This is a warning that I’m going to do it again now unless you want me to stop,” is not exactly a feeling he’d equate with hate.

It must just be the watered-down alcohol in his system. Right. Because suddenly he’s a lightweight. Like he doesn’t go out drinking almost every other day, often drinking Miles under the table. 

Miles leans back over him but his mouth lands on Michael’s other nipple this time and even though Michael’s prepared for it it still makes him huff out a loud breath, almost a groan. Miles’s tongue is so soft on him, wet and warm, and the feeling of it as Miles pulls away and blows cool air over the trail of saliva his tongue has left is almost enough to have Michael forgetting that this is even meant to be a game of sorts.

Except then Miles grabs blindly behind himself for the salt shaker, gaze not meeting Michael’s and staying trained intently on Michael’s nipples, and Michael’s reminded that they’re just doing body shots and that this isn’t… this isn’t something he should be _feeling_ things over.

Miles tips the shaker over both nipples, pauses, makes a thoughtful noise, and then he leans down and quickly licks a line up the slight dip between Michael’s pecs before salting that up too.

Michael’s hands are very carefully balled up at his sides the whole time, muscles in his arms tense. He’s biting at his tongue, too. So many things he’s holding himself off from saying or doing.

Christ, he’s so fucking screwed.

“Huh,” Miles singsongs as he lifts back up to survey his handiwork, voice breezy and sounding intrigued. Maybe more than a little pleased, actually. “Your nipples are hard,” he says before quickly flicking a knuckle on his finger over one of Michael’s pebbled nipples, sending a flood of heat straight to Michael’s dick and making Michael’s breath catch in the back of his throat. 

Michael can’t stop himself from reacting under Miles at it, squirming, and… _okay_ … did he say screwed? He meant fucking dead.

Michael has absolutely no fucking clue how to respond to that in a way that doesn’t incriminate him somehow. His first instinct when confronted by anything he’s not used to or prepared for is to get defensive, however, so that’s what he does.

Michael frowns, arms almost moving to cross over his chest before he remembers himself and the salt that’s on his chest and abortively flattens them back on the floor, movements awkward and choppy.

He wets his bottom lip, mouth dry. “Well, fuckin’ duh. They’re an erogenous zone, dumbass. That’s what happens when you fuck with them.”

Miles’s mouth is tipped up just slightly, like he’s amused by the way Michael can’t quite meet his eyes. Or like he just thought of a really funny pun to tell that Barbara girl in his communications class again. It’s happened more than once. Miles’s mind is kind of sporadic when he’s not entirely focused on one thing. Except he’s definitely focused on this, so maybe it’s not the Barbara thing. Maybe he just loves teasing Michael about perfectly normal bodily reactions. The fucker. 

“An erogenous zone, huh?” Miles hums skeptically.

Michael’s not having it. Not today. Not after whatever the fuck that was.

“Like you didn’t already fucking know, you piece of shit,” Michael says tartly, squarely annoyed.

Miles shrugs his shoulders, as seemingly innocent as ever, and doesn’t say anything else. Miles wipes his thumb over the bottom of his lip, catching the wetness there, and then wipes his thumb off on his shorts. Michael watches the moment pass by him, something exaggerated in it, Miles thumbing his lip much too slowly to go unnoticed. Michael can’t believe that any of this is really happening.

“You’re a real prick, ya’ know that?” he tells Miles.

“Hey, man, no need to get so personal,” Miles counters, incorrigible. “I like to think I’m a pretty swell guy. All my friends like me, at least. You like me.”

Michael’s heart turns inside out at that. He knows Miles means it platonically, but the trip in Michael’s heartbeat makes him think that maybe it’s more than a platonic like. Maybe it’s a like like kind of like. Maybe this is what the girl from his cakewalk short story class meant when she was talking about how, seemingly subconsciously, Therese Belivet fell in love with Carol Aird without recognizing the attraction she was feeling towards Carol for what it was because she hadn’t thought of it as an option.

Michael’s mouth goes dry. Nope. He’s not thinking about that. This isn’t something he’s thinking about about his roommate while said roommate is literally straddling him and about to do a body shot off of him. This isn’t how he realizes he likes Miles. He’s putting a pin in that to look at later and burying it under mountains of other repressed shit he’s gathered up while in college.

“I’m starting to wonder about whether or not that’s true anymore,” Michael finds himself telling Miles, surprising even his own damn self by being capable enough to bicker while his mind whirls and whirls in circles, orbiting around the way Miles is making him feel ceaselessly. 

Miles cracks up at that, tittering behind the back of his hand, trying to say, “Aw, come on now, don’t be like that,” but he can’t quite manage it without laughing.

“I’m second guessing this roommate agreement entirely,” Michael goes on while Miles acts like Michael is the funniest person alive. He’s trying not to smile, but he finds that in those private moments when he can actually make Miles giggle uncontrollably he himself can’t help but follow along, elated that Miles thinks he’s funny. “Maybe it’s time for us to see different people.”

Miles, still laughing, asks, “Dude, are you trying to break up with me right now? Just because of a little teasing? Hey, man, I take it all back. I don’t think I could find another roommate who’s cool with me playing Halo at two in the morning.”

Michael snorts, but his head isn’t quite there with Miles anymore, floating high up in the clouds. It’s hard to stop thinking about something when what you’re trying not to think about is literally sitting on top of you. 

Miles smiles at him, then grabs at the bag of lime wedges next to his knee on the floor, right by Michael’s thigh. The backs of Miles’s fingers almost brush up against the outside of Michael’s thigh and he swears his heart stops beating for a second. Michael watches as Miles pulls open the Ziploc bag, fishes out a wedge, and then gestures at Michael with it.

“Say ‘ahh’ for me,” Miles directs him, holding the lime wedge aloft in the air right above him, waiting patiently for Michael to listen. 

He’s always so patient.

Michael knows about this part. He’s ate the lime right out of so many mouths before when he’s done body shots, but he’s never been on the other end before. It’s… incredibly intimate, he realizes. How did he never notice how intimate this was before now? 

Miles is looking down at him with his eyebrows raised and a slight tilt to his head as he positions the wedge of lime right above Michael’s closed mouth, his other hand now hovering just under his chin like he’s feeding Michael something that could spill, obviously waiting for him to comply. Michael only has a second to steel himself for what’s about to happen before he strains his head up and bites at the wedge, lips brushing Miles’s fingertips as he pulls it from Miles’s hand and then holds it in his mouth for Miles to take later.

His nerves are on fire, the weight of Miles on his legs keeping him from deciding that this is a stupid idea and fleeing from the room, and the heat is unbearable in their dorm, shitty IKEA fan whirring in the background rotely and doing absolutely nothing to keep the heat in control.

“You good?” Miles checks while wiping the lime juice from his hand onto his shorts like earlier.

Michael gives Miles a long look, wedge held in his mouth and effectively pacifying him. The lime tastes bitter on his tongue and his mouth starts watering the longer he holds it there for Miles. His face is still hot from the way Miles’s fingers had touched his lips.

“Oh, yeah, you can’t really talk now. Right,” Miles says at Michael’s hard look, dragging the last word out. “Stupid question, Miles. Yeah, Miles, you’re a real idiot.” Miles smacks at his forehead as if to say, _‘oops, I forgot.’_ “But, you know, you could just hum or something to let me know you’re good. I don’t need an entire monologue from you.”

Michael, always contrary, manages to slur, “‘M’fine just get on with it,” around the wedge in his mouth. It’s surprisingly not that hard to understand.

“You just had to do the opposite of what I said, huh?” Miles shakes his head. “But that’s cool, dawg. I’m gonna have a little fun with this one, so you should probably suck in your stomach because this tequila’s going to go everywhere. Michael,” he starts with a formal sort of flourish, “will you allow me to do the honors of getting you wet?”

Michael groans. “Dude. Come on.”

“I know, I know, I know. Phrasing. But seriously, is that cool with you? I can’t think of a better way to beat the heat than to have what looks like…” Miles pauses, holds the tequila up to the light, bobs his head thoughtfully for a second, and then, “approximately a fifth of what’s left in this tequila bottle poured on your stomach. But, like, I’d be pouring that shit _strategically_. If this stuff gets on the floor the RA’s gonna get real mad. Though I’m more worried you’ll be the one to kick my ass if I make a mess.”

When Michael says, “Yes, shut up, dumbass. That’s how we normally do it in the frat anyway,” around the wedge of lime this time it’s more of an unintelligible slur than before. At least his annoyance got acrossed despite his words not. 

“Yep. Definitely understood that,” Miles jests while he reaches for the tequila bottle. “Hey, not that I didn’t catch what you said or anything like that, but is it okay for me to pour this on your stomach? It’s probably gonna be sticky, but we’ve got water bottles to clean you up with after, I think.” 

Miles looks away and over to his desk, then Michael’s. He spots something on one of the desks and looks back to Michael.

“Also baby wipes. Unless you’d rather take a shower, though our pipes are busted so you’d have to go to the communal showers instead but I’m pretty sure I saw that one dude who sings ska music while showering heading there when I was out in the hall, so maybe don’t do that because while I think it’s super kick-ass and can’t wait until I finally get to join his band, you get pissed off by the guy… so…”

Miles eventually trails off, looking at where Michael has already let out a long — annoyed but used to Miles’s incoherency at this point — breath while nodding about halfway through what Miles was rambling mindlessly about. 

“Oh, dope. Okay. Yeah, so now’s the part where I get fucking plowed and you lose your body shots virginity,” Miles says brightly, holding the tequila bottle up in the air in triumph.

Miles takes an unnecessary sip straight from the bottle, the exposed line of his throat and the knot of his Adam’s apple particularly distracting before he holds the bottle over Michael’s stomach. Again, he waits for Michael to catch up and get the hint to suck in his stomach before he tips the bottle over and the tequila pours out along Michael’s navel.

It’s surprisingly cold against his skin and he jerks under Miles in shock, the difference in temperature from the rest of his body unexpected enough to make him cuss and hiss, lime causing him to sound like he’s talking through a mouth guard. Miles puts the hand not pouring tequila into Michael’s belly button on Michael’s hip to hold him still. Miles’s hand is warm, palm heavy, and Michael just barely manages to hold off on trying to test just how well Miles could hold him down with just that hand alone. Miles’s brow creases in concentration while he tries to pour as much alcohol on Michael’s stomach as possible without letting it overflow and spill onto the floor. 

When Miles is satisfied enough with the amount of tequila on Michael’s stomach he sets the bottle to the side and looks at Michael.

“Dude, you’re so jumpy. Relax,” Miles persuades, thumb brushing along Michael’s hip, trying to coax him into loosening up. “It’s not that cold.”

Michael wants to tell Miles to fuck off, but his teeth are setting into the lime in favor of chattering and he has to force himself to let up, some of the juice leaking onto his tongue and from the corner of his mouth, running down his jawline and dripping into his hair curled behind his ear.

Miles is right, though. The tequila really shouldn’t be that cold, not after how long it’s been sitting out in the open heat and sweating along their warmed palms. In fact, Michael’s starting to realize he’s shivering more from nerves rather than the tequila that’s cooling along his stomach and slipping down to the cut-out divots of his hip bones, soaking the band of his basketball shorts.

“That’s it,” Miles hums as Michael shallowly breathes without spilling the alcohol, consciously forcing himself to settle while Miles pats at his hip. “Atta boy, Michael. There you go, get used to the chill. Bet that’s sure cooling you off, huh?”

“Just get on with it,” Michael spits out testily, uncomfortable with how weirdly sexual Miles sounds when he talks like that.

“Patience, young grasshopper,” Miles placates him, but he’s scooting halfway off of Michael anyway.

One leg ends up between both of Michael’s while the other is off to the side so he’s sideways on top of Michael and basically straddling only one leg now, a palm on the floor opposite of where he’s still gripping Michael’s hip. Miles runs his hand up from Michael’s hip once, all the way to his armpit then back down, and at that he looks up toward Michael and lopsidedly grins.

“Time to pop that cherry.”

Michael scoffs in distaste and Miles doesn’t say anything else. 

Doesn’t even give Michael the chance to properly prepare himself beyond just that one warning.

It’s not that Michael’s brain immediately short circuits or anything, but the second Miles’s mouth is on his stomach, sucking and licking into his navel, Michael forgets how to breathe. Miles is radiating heat above him, pressing him down to the floor and overwhelming him with every electrifying point of contact between them, and he _can’t breathe_.

Miles’s tongue moves from the dip of his navel upwards, licking a mind-melting line from there to the point between Michael’s pecks where Michael blearly remembers Miles having poured some salt. The hand on Michael’s hip follows Miles’s movement upwards, palm wide and mapping his entire side until his thumb rests just above Michael’s ribs, every part of his skin that Miles just touched searing hot. As Miles swipes away the last of the salt there between Michael’s pecs with his tongue he takes the time to kiss Michael’s skin at that same point too. His lips are soft, but the prickling beard on Miles’s chin causes Michael to squirm the longer Miles holds himself against Michael’s skin.

Really, Michael’s pretty sure he’s starting to go blue in the face before Miles finally raises up and he can actually breathe again. 

Miles is fucking _beaming_ at him, his mouth wet as well as his chin, and he licks his lips before asking Michael, “What’cha think?” in the proudest, cockiest voice Michael’s ever heard in his life.

Michael thinks he’s going to die. 

“It—It’s, um, whatever,” Michael replies with a flippancy that rings hollow. His voice is way more husky than it ought to be and his tongue is wet with the taste of the lime. He’s breathless. 

Miles raises his brows, like he really expected Michael to grovel at his feet or something. His fingers brush over Michael’s lips as he takes away the lime from Michael’s mouth and then brings it to his own, sucking it lightly before taking it away from his mouth.

“‘ _Whatever_ ’ again, huh? What is that, like your catchphrase now or what?”

“No, it’s just whatever. I don’t know what you expect me to say,” he tells Miles and he means it. He doesn’t know what Miles expects from him, what he wants from this. Does he just like teasing Michael and pissing him off? “Was I supposed to clap?”

“Well, now that you mentioned it, a standing ovation would be nice.”

Miles makes a theatrical gesture with the hand not holding the lime precariously above Michael’s stomach, a clear-cut _go ahead_. Michael sets his jaw.

“I’m not going to clap like it’s the end of the flight and you’ve just landed the plane at the airport. That’s the pilot’s job, so I’m not going to fucking clap for it. And I’m definitely not going to clap for you when you didn’t even do anything to deserve it.” Then, a beat later and for good measure, he curses at Miles, “You jackass.”

Some of the juice seeps from the lime as Miles holds it up, rolling down Miles’s fingers and over the heel of his palm before leaking further down to just below his wrist. Michael chooses to watch that rather than the spark in Miles’s eyes at his words, the way Miles tilts his head shortly like he’s cracking his neck and preparing to fight. 

Miles hums cryptically, chin up. 

Miles is too full of himself sometimes and too unsure of himself in others, and Michael wonders how Miles handles his own personality when he’s like that. He’s half tempted to think a lot of Miles’s confidence is just a smokescreen for how anxious he really is underneath all of the bravado. But then if it is, he sure doesn’t show it. 

Miles brings his sticky wrist up to his mouth and holds it there, eyes darkening as he looks at Michael’s stomach. When he speaks up this time his voice is gruff and cool, not exactly detached but almost, and his lips drag against his skin. 

“Guess I’ll just have to kick it up a notch, huh?” he asks, though Michael doesn’t think he expects an answer. Then, distressingly, Michael watches with a dry, parted mouth as Miles licks from his wrist up to the center of his palm, closing his mouth around his sticky skin, eyes traveling up from Michael’s stomach to pause at Michael’s reddened chest. He pulls his lips away with a wet smack that sounds and makes everything feel way too obscene when he does it while watching Michael’s body underneath him. He flickers his gaze up to Michael’s face and Michael doesn’t know how to even begin to try deciphering the look he gets. “I get one more chance, right? But I do well under pressure, y’know. I’m aiming for better results, so be a little more honest this time ‘round, all right? Got it?”

Michael couldn’t make a noise of agreement (or more likely a noise of denial) even if he tried to just then. Of _course_ Miles could tell Michael likes it way more than he let on. He’s not being cocky just because he can, he’s doing it because he _knows_ and Michael can’t exactly shy away from the way his stare can penetrate right through him to the other side of his feelings — especially when Miles effective has Michael pinned to the floor at his disposal. 

Michael cuts his eyes away to the side, embarrassed for being called out on his lie and… excited, too. If Miles knows how much he likes it maybe he doesn’t need to try so hard to act like he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t need to be digging his nails so harshly into his palms. 

He loosens his fists and slides his eyes back to Miles’s face just in time to notice that Miles is leaning over him again, wedge of lime held above his mouth like before, and Michael closes his mouth around it without having to be told this time. Miles doesn’t hide the way that makes him grin. 

There’s another splash of watered down tequila on Michael’s stomach before Michael even really registers that, _right_ , they’re doing this again. The tequila bottle is put off to the side and Michael tries to mentally prepare himself for the feeling of Miles licking up his stomach again like he’s planning to take a bite right out of him. Michael doesn’t know why he thinks he can handle it any better this time. 

Miles holds himself up on his right hand again but instead of petting Michael’s side this time his other hand covers Michael’s wrist, not gripping but pressing it down. Michael’s lashes flutter, not expecting it, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to ask why Miles is holding his hand down like that. Miles doesn’t give him the chance. Cruel that way. 

Miles sucks up as much of the tequila that he can, the sensation of it and the feel of Miles’s beard tickling the already sensitive skin there, and then he licks into Michael’s navel like what he was already doing wasn’t bad enough. Like _sure, okay, Miles, go ahead and prolong the torture. Thanks, dickhead._ Michael squeezes his eyes shut and tenses, heartbeat increasing too rapidly to be healthy for him. When his body goes taught so do the muscles in his stomach and Michael can’t do anything about the way some of the tequila runs downward. 

Miles can, though, and he does. 

Miles makes a muffled, frustrated sort of noise like this isn’t part of his plan but follows the trail of tequila down with his tongue anyway, which… 

Right. 

Miles tonguing his way down the expanse of Michael’s stomach until he’s inches from Michael’s dick and the flat of his tongue runs above the band of Michael’s — _loose_ , why the hell did Michael put on such _loose_ — shorts?

Yeah. _That_ is the last fucking thing Michael needs right now. He bites down on the lime in a snap, teeth crushing into the lime enough to make it leak when he does it, and the fist Miles is holding down tightens again, sinew in his hand straining. 

Miles lifts up a little, swallows, and when he breathes out Michael is almost… no, he’s _sure_ that Miles does it on purpose just at that point where his hot breath ghosts over his dick through the material of his shorts. But maybe he’s not intentionally trying to rile Michael up, because instead of doing something even worse (like all the very different and increasingly more erotic scenarios that come to Michael’s mind in mere seconds, playing out behind his eyes) he starts to move up Michael’s stomach again, this time only grazing his nose along Michael’s ribs and keeping his sinful tongue to himself. 

Michael actually assumes that it’s over now and that he’s managed to make it out alive and without doing anything too embarrassing, like this was all Miles had wanted to do to him. Sometimes he can be just as much of an idiot as Miles can be. Maybe Miles is just rubbing off on him lately. 

_Phrasing_. 

Michael opens his eyes, ready to ask if that was really all Miles was going to do because that wasn’t really standing ovation worthy, but then he makes eye contact with Miles. 

Miles who is hovering right above Michael’s chest and watching him with heavy-lidded eyes that are so brown they almost look black, or maybe they are, because maybe Miles’s pupils are just blown out. But that would mean… 

Michael parts his lips to say — or ask, rather — what exactly Miles is looking at him like that for even though he thinks he already knows. But Miles answers him without even needing to hear the question, hand pressing Michael’s wrist down with more weight this time as he licks at a spot of tequila at the corner of his mouth and then covers Michael entirely. 

The full weight of Miles, the feel of his chest pressed against Michael’s stomach, about knocks the breath right out of Michael’s lungs. But then Miles breathes out from where his wet mouth is right over one of Michael’s pecks and _that?_ Yeah, that’s what really fucking does it. That and what comes immediately after. 

Miles breeches the last short distance that’s left between them and closes his mouth around Michael’s nipple and Michael swears his eyes cross for a blinding, jaw-dropping second. He can feel each and every grain of salt scratch at his sensitive nipple as Miles licks them up, the scrape of it sending heat throughout his whole body while the contrasting softness of Miles’s tongue against his nipple makes his toes curl. Miles switches to lick at the salt on Michael’s other nipple and the rush of moderately less hot air against wet skin makes him shake. 

“Oh, fuck,” Michael moans as he closes his eyes in delight, voice pornographically loud despite the makeshift gag that the lime has become. He doesn’t even realize he’s said anything out loud, some vital wiring from his brain to his mouth snapping just like that as Miles rolls his tongue down his nipple. 

Michael goes to raise his hand up to grab at the back of Miles’s head on instinct to either tug him off or push him closer, Michael’s not really sure — his body can’t make up its mind about how to deal with the weird feeling Miles is pulling from him, not sure if the way his stomach rolls is good or not. But the keywords here are that _he goes to_. He jerks his hand mere centimeters off the ground before that hand Michael had forgotten was on his wrist pushes it back down with more force, fingers curling into Michael’s skin.

Miles makes this stern noise from the back of his throat like he’s trying to communicate a whole sentence to Michael with just a grunt before the hand on Michael’s wrist tightens further in preparation for the reaction he must know he’s about to get from Michael. Almost as if he’s scolding Michael for trying to move too much under him, Miles draws his tongue back much too soon for Michael’s liking. Because Michael likes it. Christ, he _likes_ it _._

“Hey—”

Michael chokes on lime juice as his teeth clench around the lime so hard he almost bites a chunk of it clear off. Miles must really be trying to punish him, because Michael feels Miles peel off from him for only a second before Miles comes back in and does exactly what Michael had jokingly thought Miles wanted to do to him: he fucking _bites_ him. 

The uneven ridges of Miles’s bottom teeth send Michael into a state of pure oblivion as Miles drags them over Michael’s freshly rawed nipple until the nub of it is between his front and bottom teeth. He bites only lightly on it before pulling off and lifting up again, the moment only lasting five seconds but being more impactful than anything else Miles has done so far. 

Michael thinks he can actually feel something electric sizzle under his skin, something that lights him up from the inside out and makes every good part of his body’s throb. Like _there_ it is. There’s the fucking standing ovation worthy move. Michael can’t stop himself from running his mouth in shock, starting to talk before Miles has even pulled his mouth away. 

“ _Fuck!_ Shit, fuck, du-dude,” Michael pants with his eyes screwed shut so hard he sees stars, not forming a single coherent thought. “That— what was th— _fuck, Miles!_ ” he yelps as Miles, stirred on by Michael’s rambling, leans back down to quickly close Michael’s nipple between his teeth again, tugging on it before licking the center and popping his mouth off again. 

Michael actually whines. Like, throw in the fucking towel, because he fucking _whined_ after Miles teasingly pinched his nipple between his teeth. He just said _fuck_ pretenseand _fuck_ mortification and he let out the exact noise he’d been trying to keep locked up this whole time. Because Miles _bites_. He just fucking… bites apparently and Michael cannot physically or mentally handle that at all. 

He’s pretty sure he’s breathing so hard that he’s going to get light headed if he doesn’t calm down, but what the fuck? Who the hell gave Miles the right to do that and make Michael lose his entire goddamn mind? Michael knows he’s fucked, knows that if he speaks his voice is probably going to be way higher than his voice has any right to be, and he knows that if he doesn’t stop himself he might just let go of where he’s clutching the fabric of his shorts in his free hand and grab Miles’s head to pull him down for a kiss despite the lime. 

“Jesus, Miles,” Michael gets out finally, voice nothing more than a hoarse, muffled whisper.

He had to loosen his jaw to talk and the second he did juice leaked out from his mouth and rolled down both sides of his face to pool under his ears. He lets go of his shorts and blindly uses the backs of his fingers to wipe at the tracks of juice before shaking his head and pushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. 

He can’t even begin to believe the situation he’s in. 

There’s a moment, a pause, where all of the air seems to run out of their dorm, gravity collapsing around them, everything going dead silent and still as Michael’s hand in his hair digs in further and makes him tip his head back more against the floor. Michael thinks for a moment that Miles might have disappeared or that this was all just some really gay and very repressed hallucination. He’s horribly aware of the strain of his nipples and the wet spot in his boxer-briefs. Horribly aware of everything, actually, except for whatever the fuck Miles must be thinking. 

He blinks open his eyes finally, vision blurry for a moment after having been closed for so long. When his eyes focus again he settles them on Miles and realizes that Miles isn’t actually that far away from him. In fact, Miles is up with all of his weight pushed on his hand, hovering a foot above Michael’s face. 

Miles is watching Michael’s face with his own mouth slightly parted, his cheeks flushed, a distant look in his eyes like he’s not all there. He looks… well, he looks like he should be in a porno, really, and not on top of his best friend in their dorm while in the middle of doing body shots. 

Some of the little bit of tequila Miles left in his navel slips from his skin and onto the floor and Michael remembers that he’s supposed to be sucking in his stomach. The tequila will be a bitch to clean later if he doesn’t stop more of it from spilling and get up to clean it now. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even try to stop the tequila from spilling. He just stares at Miles and can’t even think to be embarrassed by the fact that if Miles looks close enough he’ll see that his eyes are blown black, that his shorts are a lot tighter now, that Michael has literally depressed back into the floor like he’s been thoroughly fucked and is too weak to even get up and clean the mess he’s been made into. 

Michael’s dick throbs at that last thought and he makes another noise, quieter this time and too breathy to be a whine and not loud enough to be a moan. Stuck somewhere in between. That’s how he always feels when Miles touches him. Like he’s stuck somewhere in between real, tangible life and some dreamlike state filled with all the possibilities Michael could ever want. 

The noise must shake Miles from whatever thoughts he must be having, because he starts to blink rapidly and look away from the hand in Michael’s hair to Michael’s eyes. He stops there for a moment, not too long but just long enough for Michael to realize that Miles isn’t done. Miles wants more. Miles looks down at the lime in Michael’s lips and Michael lets a shiver wrack through his body as the hand on his wrist finally lets up, all that pressure suddenly gone, and Michael is all too aware of the fingernail marks he can feel start to sting now in the palm of his hand. 

Michael knows Miles is going to do it, but not as quickly as he does it. He barely has time to shut his eyes again before Miles bends down, drops onto his forearm, and bites at the lime held between Michael’s teeth. Their lips almost touch, _just_ there, but not fully.

There’s not much juice left in it because Michael couldn’t exactly control himself, but Miles’s hand comes up to hold Michael’s face close like he’s kissing him as he sucks at it for what feels like hours anyway. Some of the juice pearls around the rind of the lime before the tension builds up and bursts, dripping down into Michael’s mouth and onto his tongue. Some juice might actually be falling from Miles’s lips. Michael’s too flustered to be able to tell for sure, but the thought alone makes him give up on trying to control himself and he takes two handfuls of Miles’s hair between his fingers and pulls Miles back.

Miles takes the lime with him, Michael finally releasing it from his mouth, and the look of shock on Miles’s face would be hysterical if Michael thinks he could laugh right now. Michael lets go of Miles only to press both palms against Miles’s chest and forcefully shove him up, off, and away. 

Miles’s voice is smokey and rough when he finally speaks, sounding exactly as thrown off as he looks when he settles back on his heels and pulls the lime out of his mouth. “Michael, what are you—”

“Now let me do you,” Michael tells him, breathing unevenly as he moves up with Miles, sitting and looking covetously at the wet plump of Miles’s lower lip, wanting to groan at the grains of salt still stuck there. 

Miles turns so red Michael would lose him in front of the red bricked library on campus. 

“Uh… what?”

“Let me do you. Let me do a body shot off of you too,” Michael explains, insistently pressing a hand on Miles’s shoulder as he gets on his knees in front of Miles. 

“I don’t know if you want to do that. I’m not even a little bit as hairless as you, dude.” 

Miles is wide eyed as Michael applies more pressure on his shoulder and makes him tip back on his ass, knees falling apart.

“I know, Miles, I’ve seen you without a shirt on, remember?”

“Right,” Miles says, clipped. “Michael, I don’t know if that’s such a–”

“You don’t have to take off your shirt, okay?” Michael exhorts, looking at Miles in the eyes with as much earnestly in his voice as he can muster, pushing down the manic want for only a moment to persuade Miles easier.

Miles is still for a moment as he considers what Michael is saying before he sighs, resigned, and nods. “Yeah, okay, man, if you really wanna. I’ve done this before though, you know.”

Miles really doesn’t take off his shirt, but Michael can work with that.

“I know. I’ve seen you do body shots a million times in the frat. I know how you are.”

Michael puts a hand on one of Miles’s knees and flattens Miles’s leg down so he can climb over it. 

“That sounds suspiciously judgmental,” Miles teases, doing that awkward giggling thing he does when he gets nervous. 

Michael glances up from where he was watching himself guide Miles’s other leg down. Miles is watching Michael’s face, head to the side and dipped down like he was following Michael’s face the whole way. He raises his head back up when Michael does. The eye contact is almost too much, but Michael doesn’t want to miss this. 

“Now look who’s talking about being judgmental over body shots,” Michael replies with the same amount of confidence Miles had earlier. 

And then Michael straddles Miles’s right thigh, hand falling to Miles’s shoulder for balance as he removes the knee from between Miles’s legs and shifts until he’s straddling both thighs instead. His knee brushes against Miles’s crotch on accident and Miles visibly clenches his jaw, eyes flickering through too many emotions at once before landing on something heated. He must not think that was an accident. Michael can roll with that too. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Miles questions instead of responding to the bait. One of his hands is flat on the ground beside his hip, fingers curled in the fiber of the carpet, while the other is still holding the lime. 

Michael laughs, grabs for the salt that’s so close to his knee he’s surprised he didn’t knock it over when they were moving, and puts his other hand around Miles’s throat. He doesn’t grip it, only lightly presses his fingertips there and uses his index finger to push Miles’s jaw up, his chin turned, the side of his neck exposed. His fingers trail up more and grab at Miles’s chin, turning Miles’s head even more until Miles is forced to look at him through the corners of his eyes. 

“I’ve got a plan,” Michael reveals, but he doesn’t tell Miles what it is. “I know what I’m doing. This is payback.”

Miles doesn’t get the chance to retort, because if Michael was caught off guard all those times, then Miles should be able to take what he gives.

Michael licks into the hollow of Miles’s throat and up a trail along the side of Miles’s neck and right under Miles’s bearded jaw. Both of Miles’s hands come up in an instant, clasped like a vice around Michael’s waist, the lime dropped on the floor without a care, and Michael swears he doesn’t mean to laugh but he can’t stop himself. Miles isn’t even a fraction as controlled as Michael tried to be. 

“You’ve had a neck shot done before on you, right, Miles? Or am I your first too?”

Miles has his eyes closed, which is good. If he had them open Michael would have to him look at him properly and Michael isn’t actually as composed as he’s pretending to be. Really, all Michael’s thinking about right now is how warm Miles’s hands are on his still _very_ shirtless torso and how Miles’s skin tastes like nothing really except for the lime still on Michael’s tongue. 

“Why?” Miles asks after a long moment. He opens his eyes halfway, peering at Michael from the side. “Do you want to be my first? I can act like you are if you want.”

Michael’s cheeks heat. Fuck Miles. Fucking stupid asshole with fucking stupidly pretty freckles when he’s flushed and a dumb ability to be confident and nervous at seemingly the same damn time. 

“Shut up,” Michael mumbles as he uses having to salt Miles’s neck as an excuse to look away from the smile that breaks out on Miles’s face, eyes focusing solely on Miles’s neck. 

He pushes Miles back some more, forces him to have to withdraw a hand from Michael’s skin to put it behind himself, and then Michael tilts the salt over the wet skin on Miles’s throat. Some of the salt sticks, but most of it doesn’t. Michael isn’t too concerned about it, though, because Miles’s hand is sliding up from Michael’s waist to just under his armpit distractingly. 

Michael puts the salt shaker down and grabs for the tequila not too far off. 

“Gonna need a new lime,” Miles reminds Michael. “Bag’s to your left just over there, where you were laying.”

Michael glances at it, grabs for it after setting the tequila back down by Miles’s hip temporarily, and stretches over to it. He’d almost fall sideways if not for Miles’s hand moving from Michael’s side to grip under his elbow and hold him back. Michael raises back up, rights himself on Miles’s thighs, and then tosses the bag at Miles. 

“You get it.”

Michael waits until Miles removes his only free hand from Michael’s arm to instead grab the ziplock bag, bring it to his mouth, use his teeth to open it, and drop the bag to his lap before Michael leans in to interrupt him. He takes a swig of the tequila, the taste of it off because of how warm it is now, sets the bottle back down in a rush like he’s slamming a shot glass, and laves his tongue over Miles’s skin. 

Michael can hear Miles inhale sharply, the sound of it making something in Michael jump to attention, ears perked for any other sound Miles might make. The salt isn’t exactly a taste you want on your tongue, but Michael ignores it and tries to get every grain he can, thorough as he goes over Miles’s neck more than once. 

Miles moves forward as he does it, off his hand, and grabs at the back of Michael’s neck, fingers holding but not gripping. His grasp isn’t tight yet. He’s not making any sounds either. 

That’s not what Michael wants, though. 

So Michael gets to the curve of Miles’s neck and does what Miles probably would. He pulls his tongue back, licks his teeth, and bites Miles. He doesn’t do it hard, honestly not even doing it enough to leave even a faint mark, but the hand on Michael’s neck tenses before squeezing so tight Michael’s head tips back just from muscle instinct. Just to lessen the tightness. 

Michael’s lower lip drags across Miles’s neck as he releases Miles’s throat practically by force, his breath blowing out of mouth at the same time that Miles groans and actually shudders under Michael. Miles relaxes his hand and slides it up to bury in Michael’s hair and Miles turns his head to face Michael again properly. Their eyes meet, their lips wet, faces close together, and Michael suspects for a moment that Miles might kiss him. 

No, Miles is definitely going to kiss him. 

He’s watching Michael’s lips and he’s panting and clearly thrown off from that bite, and Michael knows he’s hard because he felt Miles against his knee earlier, and it just makes sense. Them kissing right now and letting all of this tension coalesce and burst into a flurry of tongues and teeth and hands just makes _sense_. 

But Miles is a fucking _idiot._

And Miles _never_ makes sense most of the goddamn time. 

So as Michael licks his lower lip and revels in the weight of Miles’s hand on the back of his head pressing him forward, he doesn’t even notice the way Miles’s other hand is pulling a lime from the bag in his lap, the juices coating his fingers until they’re dripping. Michael closes his eyes at the same time Miles leans back, brings his hand up, and feeds Michael the lime. 

Michael’s eyes fly open in shock, lips wet as they part like the animal part of his brain is reacting naturally to food even when his real, actual human brain is stuck five seconds in the past wondering why they aren’t kissing. That hand in the back of Michael’s hair is coaxing him on though, and Miles is watching Michael take the lime with hooded eyes and his own mouth parted too, tongue caught between his teeth, so Michael bites into the lime and makes a confused noise in his throat, the sound of it going high as Miles’s thumb presses to the corner of Michael’s mouth like he’s about to slip it in along with the lime. 

And then Miles pulls the lime away to discard it like the other one, Michael almost following it at first before Miles tugs lightly at the hair he’s entangled between his fingers like he’s telling Michael not to. Michael’s expecting Miles to drop his hand away next, to lean back again, make some dumb joke or something like that. 

Michael’s expecting Miles to retreat like Michael would if he were in his right mind right now and not running off some weird high from all the possessive, gently guiding touching going on right now. 

But Miles doesn’t make sense. 

Miles never fucking does what Michael expects. 

So when Miles goes, “ _Ahh_ ,” like he’s telling Michael to open up, Michael’s confused enough to go along with it. And when Miles slides both his index and middle fingers into Michael’s mouth and over his tongue, the lime juice that’s coated Miles’s hand from the ziplock bag and the salty taste of Miles’s skin overwhelming Michael’s senses, Michael doesn’t know what to do. 

He’s so damp in his boxer-briefs his fingers would come back wet if he touched them, his nipples are still hard, his pulse is thrumming so hard he can hear it beating in his ears, and Miles makes this pleased rumble that comes straight from his chest and spills out of his mouth like molasses and every carnal urge he’s ever had rolled into one noise that sets Michael’s body on fire like a fucking viking funeral. 

Michael doesn’t close his mouth, let’s Miles really see all of it, and rolls his tongue up to curl around one finger. Miles full-on moans, fingers tightening in Michael’s hair and pressing Michael closer like he’s getting a blowjob. If Michael weren’t as into this as he is he’d probably laugh. 

Miles is into some weird shit.

Michael isn’t much different, but still. 

They’re quite the pair. 

Michael grabs Miles’s forearm with one hand and digs the heel of his palm against his very insistent and annoyingly distracting erection with the other to try and get himself to keep his eyes open and focused on Miles. But it’s getting hard, because he is probably too turned on right now to even hear Miles talk if he had something to say to him. But honestly most of what Miles needs to say he says with his body, with his hands on Michael’s skin, and if there’s anything else he needs to say it can be done later. 

“Fuck, Michael.”

Okay… maybe Michael can pay attention to some talk. 

He feels like he’s about to drool so he finally closes his mouth, letting the lime and the salt and the skin and the watered down tequila take over him. He sucks, because if Miles is going to act like his fingers are the lime then Michael can play along. 

Miles makes a noise like he’s been shot in the gut and drags Michael closer by the back of his head just so he can bury his face in Michael’s neck, Michael able to feel just how hot Miles’s face is against his throat. Michael can’t stop himself from laughing this time, pulling Miles’s fingers out of his mouth with the grip he has on Miles’s forearm. He’s aware of the saliva that gets on his chin and the remnants of tequila turning tacky on his body, but he’s uncharacteristically okay with the mess right now. The floor is… less okay, but so long as Miles is touching him he thinks he can ignore it for now. 

“You did that yourself, I don’t know why you’re acting like a virgin over it,” Michael says about how Miles is literally hiding his face over seeing Michael suck on his fingers. Miles brought this upon himself. 

Michael pokes at Miles’s side after a long couple of seconds when Miles doesn’t immediately reply. 

“We need to stop,” Miles says finally, voice turned into a muffled whine by Michael’s skin. 

Michael’s mind goes blank. A beat, then Miles’s words catch up to him and he wants to go back in time and take back everything he did to possibly warrant this reaction from Miles. The last thing he wants is to stop. How could _Miles_ want that? 

“What?” Michael gets out, brows knitting together over his eyes, worry and confusion twisting his face.

“We need to stop,” Miles repeats, not moving from Michael’s neck. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be taking— I was letting my feel— I—” Miles stops himself to inhale and exhale deeply, let his mouth catch up to his 100mph brain. 

He pulls back from Michael and even in the dead middle of the Texas heat Michael is all at once cold. Miles shouldn’t be pulling back. They were supposed to kiss. What the hell is going on?

“I need you to get up, okay, Michael? Can you get up for me?”

Michael doesn’t reply right away because he’s too nervous thinking that he’ll say the wrong thing if he does. He doesn’t know why suddenly everything is different. 

“Why?” he asks instead of listening, face screwed up in confusion. His hands move to Miles’s shoulders and it’s mostly just to ground himself, but also has the added benefit of keeping Miles in front of him.

Miles meets his eyes for only a moment but even in those few fleeting seconds Michael can tell that Miles looks just as confused as him. So _why_ did he stop? Michael has never been this thrown off by something Miles has done in the time since he’s met him. 

“We’re drunk,” Miles states, a surety that begets contradiction. His hand falls from the back of Michael’s head and to the ground at his side, fingers splaying on the floor. 

“I’m not drunk,” Michael tells him with a small shake of his head. 

What is Miles trying to pull here?

Michael watches as Miles’s fingers curl into his palms, conviction in those fists.

“You’re drunk.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “That stuff we’ve been drinking is too watered down to do anything. Come on, man. Not even a _baby_ would get drunk off that shit. I’m not even buzzed and you think I’m drunk?”

“I think we’re both drunk,” Miles tells him, and the way he says it, the way he finally levels Michael with a long, weighted stare, has an air of finality to it. 

Miles meets his eyes with a gaze that says so much in the span of two seconds that it’s capable of breaking Michael’s heart, and, in a way, it does.

They’re not drunk. Miles knows that. But what they’re doing right now… it’s stupid. It’s just a reaction to the stimulating things they’re doing. They’ll regret this if they go any further. They don’t have any other real friends and have only each other, so how could they mess up the friendship they have just because they’re horny? How could they do that to each other and themselves? They can’t. They shouldn’t. 

So they’re drunk. This was only a result of that, not something they did because they meant it. Now they’ll detach themselves from the reality of the situation, start cleaning up and finding any excuse they can to get away from each other. And, tomorrow, when they finally look at each other without shying away, they’ll act like they forgot everything that happened here. Because they were drunk. 

That’s what Miles wants. 

Miles was the one who started this and now he’s ending it like he thinks has any right to do so. Michael’s wanted this for so long without even realizing it until now, but now Miles is telling him without words that this isn’t going to go any further because it wasn’t meant to get this far in the first place. He made Michael notice his feelings and now he’s telling Michael they have to stop. 

Michael clenches his teeth.

“You want us to stop?”

Miles doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes. He just nods. 

“Stop what?” Michael’s voice is whipcord thin as he calls Miles’s name, cutting through the air harshly, “Miles, what exactly are you talking about?”

“This. What we’re doing. The shots. The… everything. This shouldn’t have gone this far.”

“You did that,” Michael points out. His voice is so level he’s starting to freak even himself out. “Miles, you’re the one who did all of this.”

“I—” Miles closes his mouth. Looking away shamefully, he nods like he thinks Michael’s right. Like everything really is his fault. Michael’s upset enough — no, he’s _angry_ enough — to let him stew in that. “Right. I’m sorry. I was being selfish and this isn’t right. The— the alcohol was a mistake. I get too carried away over stupid things and I shouldn’t have done any of this but I was just—”

Michael gets up. 

He uses his grip on Miles’s shoulders and pushes himself off of Miles, onto his knees and then away from Miles as he stands and starts picking shit up, not even looking at Miles anymore. 

Miles doesn’t bother to move from the floor, stuck there. 

Michael mechanically carries the salt shaker and the tequila back to the mini fridge, both going inside it. He looks behind himself and then moves to pick up his shirt, tugging it back on and not caring about the way the wet patches of his skin mottle his shirt all along his stomach.

Miles is quiet the whole time. Good. Michael doesn’t want to hear it right now anyway. Doesn’t want to hear Miles start talking about how he’s not actually interested in Michael _like that_. How he was just reacting to his body while using the made up excuse of intoxication as a scapegoat. How he doesn’t even think of Michael as anything more than a friend. 

And now Michael has to act like he’s on the same page. Like, _yeah, Miles, I was just turned on by the things you were doing because of the alcohol and not because I was actually enjoying experiencing them. Thanks for stopping it before I got to kiss you. That’s exactly what I wanted. You didn’t make me realize I fucking like you more than a friend or anything. Good fucking job being the unsung hero who blue-balled yourself and me, you fucking dickhead._

Michael can’t stand to even be in the same room as Miles right now, this whole thing devolving into a mare. 

“I’m going to go shower this shit off,” Michael tells Miles without so much as a glimpse back to him, not acknowledging Miles any more than he has to. He makes use of his shaking hands by grabbing a towel off the hook on their opened bathroom door. “Clean up the carpet before it stains. And drink some water while you’re at it. You know,” Michael says with a mean twist of his mouth, “to sober you up.”

He storms right by Miles without sparing him even another second of his time, opening the dorm’s door and stepping out into the hall. He has to physically restrain himself from slamming the door as he closes it, not wanting to alarm everyone else on their floor that he’s seconds away from going back in there and yelling at Miles until he’s blue in the face. 

He marches down the hall and the further he gets away from Miles, the more the annoyance and the overwhelming loss build on each other until Michael’s split halfway between pissed off and in mourning. 

Miles didn’t even say anything. 

He didn’t have to. 

Michael got the message loud and fucking clear. 


End file.
